


Nothing Lasts Forever (I Can’t Do This Without You)

by SuperSilverSpy



Series: January Prompt Event Thing (Definitely Going On Longer Than January) [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Bruce Wayne is a Bad Parent, Bruce Wayne’s A+ Parenting, Bruce Wayne’s N- Parenting, But also not, Character Death, Circle of Death, Crime Syndicate (DCU), Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Damian Wayne is Dick Grayson’s son, Death, Depressed Damian Wayne, Depressed Dick Grayson, Depression, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson Whump, Dick Grayson is Damian Wayne’s Parent, Dick Grayson is a good dad, Dick Grayson is a good older brother, Dick Grayson-centric, Gen, Good Sibling Dick Grayson, Grief, He doesn’t get it, Hurt, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt No Comfort, January Prompt Event, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Major character death - Freeform, Maybe - Freeform, Mourning, SilverGrayson, Suicidal Thoughts, SuperSilverSpy, Thing - Freeform, Tim Drake Being a Little Shit, Whump, ish, jason Todd is a good bro, just gets killed..., or maybe he’s just dead forever, pre-spyral
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:15:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28842231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperSilverSpy/pseuds/SuperSilverSpy
Summary: “I can’t do this without you,” Jason said, gruff. The words should’ve sounded different, would’ve sounded different, from someone else’s lips. Little Wing said it like a fact, aloof with his heart hidden deep within, like he didn’t care. It made Dick’s heart ache, but he wouldn’t have had it any other way.“I can’t do this without you.” | Undercover Mission | Sharing SecretsOR times people told Dick “I can’t do this without you”, a time he said it himself, and the time he wasn’t there to say it to
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Dick Grayson & Tim Drake
Series: January Prompt Event Thing (Definitely Going On Longer Than January) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2114919
Comments: 17
Kudos: 136
Collections: Bat Family 18+ Discord Server January Prompt Event





	Nothing Lasts Forever (I Can’t Do This Without You)

**Author's Note:**

> No one tells me when these things start!  
> I love prompts and contests and stuff  
> And I only find out until authors are already posting  
> Sigh  
> If someone would be extra nice and tell me when these things start that would be great...  
> Anyway,  
> Pay attention to the series this is attached to,  
> There is Major Character Death  
> Because that’s what people tag it for Jason’s canon death  
> So I figured I should for Dick’s too  
> Many thanks to my beta teeelsie  
> Enjoy!

“I can’t do this without you.”

Dick scowled, snapped. “You know d*** well that’s not true.”

The hulking silhouette didn’t move, just stayed there, dark fabric flickering in the breeze.

“Gotham needs you, _I_ need you.”

Nightwing just snorted and prepared his grapple. Got ready to jump, to run far, far away from this. This never ending cycle. They’d been through this same song and dance so many times. He was so, _so_ tired of it honestly. He belonged to Blüdhaven, it was far from perfect and ridden with crime, but it was _his._ He was his own man, much as he felt otherwise every time Batman came along.

“When do you _not_ need me?” he asked, anger coloring his tone.

He was ignored.

“Your siblings need you.” 

That was low, and Dick said as much. Stood there, felt the weight of that gaze on him. Emotionally constipated, sure, but Bruce was nothing if not manipulative. Nightwing would do as the man asked of course. He’d known he would the moment he knew he was being watched and by whom. The perfect prodigal son, like a loyal puppy.

Bruce knew he'd won.

“Hnn.”

Dick sighed, despondent. “The truth is, you never need _me_ , that’s the answer. You need the version of me you’d meant to create. Just another asset...”

Turned around, stared at nothing.

Batman wasn’t there. Nightwing didn’t know exactly when he’d left, and he didn't care. To the empty rooftop, to the darkness, to himself, he continued on dryly,

“...because the world would end before you consider me your son.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  


  
“Please, Dick. I can’t do this without you.”

Poor, sweet little Timmy. Looking up to him like that, all imploring eyes and depressive posture. Guilt threatened to overwhelm him. Dick looked away, looked down.

“I’m sorry, Timmy—” 

“Don’t call me that.”

“I just—” he paused.

“Just what, _Dick,”_ the kid said. He’d heard his name said like that before, of course, and by many people. Just not from this one, he’d never thought…

“I can’t just leave Gotham and let everything B—Bruce worked so hard for go to waste on the off chance that you’re right. I’m so sorry Tim, Damian—Damian needs me.”

He saw it, the moment the mistake was made. The line he’d crossed, wholeness in their relationship that he’d never get back. Not fully, not with Tim. The teenager who’d just closed up right before his eyes, who would probably hate him forever, who didn't understand, who’d been wronged so many times _it just wasn’t fair_ —Dick held it together. He had to.

Tim snapped, grabbed the bag at his feet, moved to leave.

“Please don’t go. I can help you, we can work things out.”

He was halfway out the door. Dick felt desperation welling up inside him.

“I stand by my choice, but I did it wrong, alright? I am so, so sorry for that, and listen—some part of me believes you. Bruce could be alive. I know how incredibly smart you are Tim and I—”

“Dick,” his little brother interrupted coldly, staring at him with those hard, dead, heartbreakingly mature eyes, “You are a bad f***ing liar.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“I can’t do this without you,” Jason said, gruff. The words should’ve sounded different, _would’ve_ sounded different, from someone else’s lips. Little Wing said it like a fact, aloof with his heart hidden deep within, like he didn’t care. It made Dick’s own heart ache, but he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

“I’ll do it Jay,” he said, and they prepared.

Nightwing and the Red Hood, going undercover, their targets wouldn’t see it coming. Sex traffickers, drug dealers, abusive b******s. Jason knew about Mirage, but not about Tarantula, not yet anyway.

They went because the others were too young, and it was Jason’s case in Blüdhaven. Bruce didn’t need to know. Two brothers, each there to help the other. It brought back bad memories, of course, but they were professionals. Dick had always been great at pretending, at putting on a show and making people see what they expected to see, what he wanted them to see. Jason knew the terrain, the people, the language. He could’ve probably written a Bad Guy Etiquette 101 if he wanted to. 

They were both used to standing out, but that didn’t mean they didn't know how to blend in.

Worked their way up the chain, gathered intel, until they’d found the best time to strike. Drug dealers first, Red Hood showed up, hiding green tinged eyes behind the red of his helmet. Nightwing didn’t know why Jason didn’t kill, how the man had managed to hold himself back so well, but Dick appreciated it nonetheless. The reason soon became apparent when they brought down the sex traffickers. Excessive violence and a single death. It could have been worse, and Nightwing couldn’t bring himself to be overly upset about it anyway.

Everything went well, the bad guys were defeated, whole rings of them brought down. They did good work that night. The two should’ve been happy, should’ve felt like celebrating, except they didn’t. Everything was as it should be, their mission was successful. Though in a way, it wasn’t. Two kids, two lives, two souls, two futures, gone, lost, sacrificed in a horrible way despite their combined efforts.

_(“No! Don’t!”_

_The fastest of them all, faster than even Batman, some might’ve said_ — _this time_ — _this time—he wasn’t fast enough._

_Big blue eyes, shiny with tears, even from so far away. Dick saw._

_Saw yet another black-haired, surely blue-eyed boy on the ground not three feet from the first one. The first, who was the older of the two._

_Brothers, Nightwing registered numbly, forcing his legs to pump harder._

_A spray of blood, dissociative and mournful gaze dulling even further. Rusted nail falling with a clang to the floor, crimson from the flesh it’d impaled._

_“I...I f—failed…”_

_Were the words Dick heard from those lips as he picked the boy up to hold in his arms. He’d assumed they were brothers earlier, in the heat of the moment. Up close he could see clearly that he had been right. Broken and mutilated, the second boy laid nearby. Even in death the one in his arms stared with glass eyes at the...the corpse. Like looking in a mirror, the slightly healthier looking older brother, at the still, mangled little boy. Dirty, dead, and covered in blood, that’s how the child in Dick’s arms must’ve felt before the end._

_Nightwing couldn’t say he didn’t know the feeling._

_Red Hood arrived, boots heavy against the ground. Distantly, Dick felt the weight of his gaze on the scene, as his Little Wing took in the smaller form, dead a few feet away. The severely damaged wrist of the one in Nightwing’s own arms._

_“I...I could see—he used the last of his strength to...to…” he choked on a sob. Jay came over as Dick carefully set the kid down. Unconsciously shifting to a better position, Nightwing leaned into the shoulder of the other man, “I just, they were b—both...both already so weak, Jay, I was—I was too late.”_

_“We both were.”)_

Afterward, they went to a bar. 

“You know,” Jason said, staring blankly at the wall as he downed another shot. “I don’t blame you for my death, I know you do, but I—”

“You should.” Dick’s voice cracked.

“Don’t give me that sh**, it was on Bruce anyway.”

“Shouldn’t blame him either…” were the words muttered brokenly into his drink.

“Why not? All our problems could be linked back and logically blamed on that b******, and you know it.”

“Because, Jay, I make my own problems most of the time. Make plenty for everyone else too…”

“I forgave you for that, Dickie. You weren’t the worst brother in the world.”

“Maybe…” he trailed off, sagging even further. “I just—I want you two to get along. I w—want _all_ of you to get along. It’s my job as the eldest to—”

“Cut the crap, it’s _not_. My beef with Bruce has nothing to do with you, and as for the replacements—”

“If you wanna blame someone for your death not being avenged, blame me.” There it was, the words were out. If Dick had been a bit more lucid, he might’ve held his breath, or worn an expression that didn’t make him look half wasted. As it is, he just averted his eyes and turned toward his drink

A snort. “Sure Big Bird, if it’ll satisfy your Goldie Guilt Complex, then by all means, imagine that I blame you.”

Dick didn’t even have the energy to flinch at those words, just sloshed whatever the h*** was in his cup around, bringing it up for a swig. “I was the one who convinced him not to, Jay. If I hadn’t stuck around to stop him, maybe he would’ve killed the Joker.”

Jason was speechless, unsure. So he just waved to the bartender for another drink, then proceeded to empty the glass just as quickly, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

“Th—then again, _I_ killed the stupid clown, so…” Dick’s word’s started to slur.

Little Wing blinked, blurted out, “But the f***er’s still alive.”

“Bruce resuscitated ‘im.”

Jason couldn’t seem to muster up any anger. Slumped tiredly against the counter, a look of realization crossed over his face, “Really? _You_ killed him. For me?”

Dick was mildly caught off guard by the question, stopped to consider it sluggishly. Nodded like a sloth. “Yeah...yeah, guess I did. He was sayin’ things ‘bout you. I...I didn’t like it.”

_Yeah, I’ll bet_ , was what Jason’s face read. It was true, Nightwing didn’t get _that_ angry easily. Even on his worst days, with the worst criminals. Dick could see the moment his Little Wing decided he was too hammered to be telling anything but the truth. The younger would’ve been right, Dick probably couldn’t have handled fooling even a stranger right then if he’d tried.

A while later, Jason spoke up, said tiredly, “It wasn’t about th’ Joker really, not entirely… Sure, I wanted the b****** dead, with ‘is head on a spike and all ‘at sh**, but...it was all ‘bout some ridiculous notion of a fath—of family.”

Dick hummed in acknowledgement, the chances of him remembering any of this were so slim, maybe that was why Jason continued on. It may also have had something to do with the large amount of alcohol he’d ingested. Large even with his slightly-faster-than-normal metabolism.

“Batman ‘an Willis, they’re both abusive a**holes...y’know, just...in different ways. Both ‘ave had good—good moments, though Bruce’s had a few more...I’ll give you ‘at.”

Sitting in companionable, albeit drunk, silence, the two attempted to drink their worries away. It felt good, Dick decided, helping his brother out, hearing those things even if he’d already guessed them. Maybe he hadn’t failed afterall.

Just before passing out, Dick muttered to his not-so-lucid brother, “You know I love you, right Little Wing?”

“Yeah, I...I know, Dickiebird. I know.”

  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


“I can’t do this without you,” Dick sobbed.

The world was grey, grey and black. Black like the bat suit. He didn’t see the point in color. He couldn’t, not anymore, not as he knelt in the dirt below a grey sky and before a grey—thing. A terrible thing of stone, etched with words he’d stared at without comprehending since he’d gotten close enough to read them.

“D—“ he hiccuped, “D—Da—“

Wind whipped, flowing sharply under his shirt, against his skin. It disheveled his hair, blowing the strands in every direction. The feeling brought him back from the images that had been flashing through his mind. Pain tore at him, like claws from inside his rib cage, destroying him from the inside out.

“M—My fa—fault…”

It hurt, indescribable in a way nothing had ever been, not since...not since...he thought he’d known, thought he’d understood, that they’d formed something, that he’d been familiar with—with death. Him and death, meeting once, twice, close calls, brushes here and there. 

“I—I’m s—sorry, I should’ve—“

Bruce’s death had been hard, harder than hard, but he’d known what to expect, somewhat. Everyone had always left him eventually, and Batman was too stubborn for his own good. When the day came, there wasn’t any time for Dick to grieve him anyway. Too much pressure weighing him down, responsibility settling over his skin like the survival of billions, rather than the usual millions of lives it’d felt like were in his hands on bad days.

Afterall, lives were more precious than anything.

“Da—Dam—“

Raven hair, spiky from a distance but soft like a porcupine’s belly. Eyes blazing with anger that had hidden fear. Posture cocky and arrogant born from insecurity. Reckless decisions and determined actions that spoke of a craving for approval, that strove to prove a worth that needed no proof. Features twisted in silent pain, unwilling to ask for help. Words that cut and bit, a test behind a test behind ignorance, all in the form of cold indifference. Nimble fingers that could have destroyed or created, a preference towards the later that he had firmly denied. Creatures in need of help, being smuggled through and cared for. A boy seemingly resistant to hugs and kind touches that were melted into when prying eyes were thought to be far away. Thoughtful gestures, protective glares at potential threats, sacrificial actions to protect his mentor; Dick had seen it so clearly that the words didn’t even need to be said. 

“I l—love you…”

His vision blurred behind ribbons of salt that cascaded down his face, dripping steadily to the recently distributed earth below. Losing his parents, his surrogate father, his brother, and countless, countless friends. They had all destroyed him, again and again, chipping piece by piece away from his heart. He willed death to tell him, to let him know, why was this one different? Why so...so unfamiliar. So unnatural, uncomfortably sickening in it’s own right, just to remember that youthful face...too young. Death would not answer him, there was no need to. One word came into view, formal and not uncommon to see on a—on a gravestone.

**Son**

It sat there, innocently. He felt as it glared at him, boring into his soul. Now those were the words, even the mere _implications,_ that had truly been avoided, unspoken. Dick would never get to tell him, to find out the answer to the question that burned deep in his gut. His—His little D would never know, would never get the chance to consider it. If only Nightwing was the hero he was supposed to have been. If only he had been better, stronger, faster, if only he could do it all again.

Dick cried out in anguish, threw himself against the hard stone marker. The edges dug into him as he wept, but he didn’t care, just hugged it closer. His hands scrabbled for purchase on the smoother surfaces. After a while, he slid down, energy gone.

“Dami, Dami, Dami,” he muttered, curling up in the dirt. “Little D, R—Robin, my Damian. My—My son.”

That’s how his family found him, a couple hours later. Passed out on the ground, a certain word on the gravestone stained crimson with his blood.

Days passed, months even, Dick wasn’t sure. It had been hard to keep track with life so—so lifeless. He did know however, that he’d been kidnapped, tortured on and off for a week or two, then knocked unconscious. He’d awoken to pressure squeezing him in on all sides. A bomb, he’d learned. One that was connected to his heart.

People, villains and heroes, a bit blurred at first. Batman was there, calling his name. Dick mustered up the strength to argue, to tell him to go, to leave. No need for anyone else to suffer for his failures.

Bruce didn’t listen.

Dick kept trying.

Then Lex was there, in his face, and he thought, _finally_. Someone understood, someone got it. He felt horror well up inside him when the pill made its appearance, but he didn’t fight it, didn’t want to, or maybe he did. He didn’t know anymore.

Beeps from the machine, shouts in his ears. Everything froze, and then he was slipping away. Dick thought, hazily right before the end, of his parents, past friends, and the death of a little black-haired, blue-eyed boy which had been the final straw to shattering his heart.

_Maybe I’ll get to see them again..._

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
_I can’t do this without you, Richard,_ he thought every waking hour, repeating it again and again in his head like a mantra.

Damian felt numb.

Ever since...ever since they’d told him, ever since he found out. He’d gone through the motions. Everyday, he woke and dressed and walked and sat. Tried to do things, failed to do things. Watched everyone around him crumble. Changed his attire once more, went out in honorable colors besides Father. They fought more harshly than usual. Turned in for the night, stayed up with insomnia. Rinsed and repeated.

Everything he did served as a reminder of—of _him_ , everywhere he looked there was evidence of the man’s past activities. Of _their_ past activities, the things they’d done together. The love his mentor had showered him in. 

Big, warm bear hugs, arms like an octopus suctioning on, pulling in. Soft yet firm kisses to the forehead, lips pressed there as if it was the last thing he could ever do. A voice, smooth and optimistic always, laughing like to do so was the greatest thing in the world. Talking like there weren’t enough words, like there’d never be enough time. Ordering and explaining, apologizing and expressing, sincere and genuine and a million other things that Damian hadn’t experienced before they’d met— _f***,_ he missed that voice. A strong, capable body, built from years of hard work. Flexibility like no one else, a true warrior who knew what he wanted and strove to get it. A dark cape, a warm embrace, a safe place. Damian knew he could trust this man. The man could protect him, was one who wanted to, who would look at him and see him and—and never, never judge him.

No, those eyes never did. They could’ve been full of love and kindness, had shone with compassion and empathy. They could‘ve sympathized as easily as they had filled with steel. Incredible determination, hidden strength. His brother acted the fool, and there were some things he’d never understood, and never would about the man. Though if there was one thing Damian did know, did learn amongst almost everything he’d ever been taught, it was that he was loved, by his mentor, by his family no less. At least part of it had promised not to forsake him, the part that was gone.

With said man no longer there, hardly a single soul could bother to pay attention to the actions of Damian. Hardly anyone to keep track of his whereabouts, or even want to. Pennyworth was the only one who noticed him not-so-subtly sneaking out. The old butler just sighed, face drawn and worn with age, age that was rarely acknowledged and normally not so obvious. Like anything was normal anymore.

Grief seemed to darken every inch of the manor, invading and suffocating in its presence. Damian wanted to get out, and it seemed Pennyworth understood. For the man simply raised a long, grey eyebrow and handed him his coat with practiced movements, expression unflappable, as if he had done this before.

It was raining outside.

A light sprinkling, with fog rolling in to cover the ground. Damian found himself before a gravestone, standing stiffly at attention as if facing his superior. _Feelings_ tore through him, and his face twitched toward a scowl. What was the point, he wondered, of coming back? It wasn’t _fair_ , it wasn’t _right_ . He could still scarcely believe it to be true, surely Father _had_ to be lying. Damian wished for the millionth time that his brother was still alive, that they could trade places. He would gladly do that. The man wouldn’t have approved, wouldn’t have _understood,_ but the world needed _his_ Batman more than it did him.

Tears slid down his face, he didn’t move. Didn’t reach to wipe them away, didn’t shake with any sobs. Simply stood there, like a statue. Like the cold stone before him, if not for the liquid making its way slowly down his face. Everything stilled, it seemed as if there was complete silence, liveliness muffled so thoroughly there was no sound at all, no movement.

He cleared his throat, “I love you, Richard.”

It was the only thing he thought of to say, the one thing he’d never specifically said. He hadn’t needed to. Though now, he regretted it. Did the man know? Damian had been sure that he did, even so, it felt right to say it then. What else could he say? He should say something else, he thought idly, _his_ Batman had always been so much better with words. The man had probably even said some to Damian’s own grave. The possibility filled him with a fraction of the warmth he’d once felt, even as he thought of his own staunch avoidance of said place of his own burial.

There were words on the gravestone, as was customary, and as he read them, an uncomfortable knot formed in his gut. Like something was missing...but no, he was unworthy of the honor of calling the man—calling the man—calling his brother, the man who’d truly raised him—

Suddenly, Damian knew what he could say. Words only for his ears and perhaps those of the one in the coffin below him. It filled him with fear, like there was a strange taboo he might be breaking by uttering such things. They were true though, no doubt about it, and Richard always had been one to encourage him to speak his mind.

“D—Dick Grayson, my—my d—dad.”

Nothing lasts forever.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Is my writing bad?  
> A friend of mine read one of my fics and said it was choppy and hard to read  
> I’ve gone through comments on fics that were poorly written  
> So I know how nice you all can be  
> I don’t mind constructive criticism you know...  
> Just tell me how I can improve  
> I don’t want any empty compliments if my writing is bad  
> Also,  
> Don’t forget to go to the first work in this series “Silver’s Circle of Death—Dick Grayson Deathfic Edition”  
> So you can give me prompts where Dickie dies  
> The link should be somewhere below  
> I know I usually give people the option to ask for a sequel, so I suppose I’ll do that here  
> Though I think this is pretty fine complete, don’t you?  
> If you do ask for a sequel, let me know what you’d like to see in it because I have no idea  
> Sorry for the long AN  
> Pleeeeeaaaaase comment, kudos if you liked, and subscribe for more
> 
> Stay whelmed!  
> —Silver


End file.
